Playing For Keeps
by Tinsela
Summary: NEW CHAPTERS BEING POSTED. NO LONGER ON HIATUS. [Carl x OC] She's haunted by death and losing her mind. He's headstrong and slowly losing control [AU, A/B/O & Sentinel/Guide Tropes] Knowledge of tropes not required to read!
**Hi!**

This fanfiction work is my contribution of a Carl x OC pairing for The Walking Dead fandom. I love Carl's character and his development from S1 to S7. Carl is going to be canonical Dark-ish later on. There's gotta be rain before sunshine, and whatnot.

We will be following the lives of our main pairing: Carl and OC. Technically, I think, this fic can be called "OC-centric" because the story is divided between Carl and the OC. The world of TWD has been changed to suit the additions of ABO and Sentinels&Guides, so about 75% is canon or resembles established canon.

Please **review** , I greatly appreciate feedback. I won't withhold chapters because of a lack of reviews, but just know that a high number of reviews directly correlates with how motivated I am to type. Updates fall on Thursdays, but the more reviews = the earlier the updates.  
Thursdays can be weekly or monthly, or every other Thursday, it really just depends on how fast I type in my busy schedule and reader responses. Real life has to come first, so when push comes to shove writing will go on the back-burner, if need be. I _will_ do my best to update asap.

 **.:.**

Carl is 13 at the start of this fic, because I find that I can't do 'kid speak' all too well . . . at least not without a lot of editing to make the kids sound their age.

Without further ado, here's the first chapter: one day before Rick was shot, all the way back in S1 . . .

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 ** _CHAPTER 1  
_**

 **Playing At Home** **\- C  
**

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 **Summary:** Chicken noodle soup, Mother Hens, and a new kid.

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 _"Carl!"_

My eyes flicker open and my head jerks up - too fast. Way, _way_ too fast!

The world is a blur of colors, and the furious rate of my blinking does nothing to settle the mess before me.

Each heavy closing of my eyelids only makes me want to hide my face back into the bend of my elbow - too tired. Way too tired, and it's not even my fault . . . if only they wouldn't talk so loud in the middle of the night.

My eyes close again, while my mouth shudders open with a full-fledged yawn.

I can pretend it's nighttime, that I'm home and no one is talking.

A brief thought of smashing my face into my pillow enters my mind. But I'm not home, so that thought is ultimately unhelpful.

I'm too far from my bed. The metal desk is looking more appealing the longer I'm forced to sit here. I scuffle my feet, tempted to peel my shoes off.

I'm too far from my soft, soft pillow.

But my elbow is good enough - maybe . . . maybe I can -

 _"Psst! - Caaarl!"_

 _No,_ I groan low at the hissing voice, _let me sleep._

 _"Caarrrl!"_

But I can't sleep, especially with my name sounding like _that,_ and the voice is close enough that I know for a fact it's my desk partner calling me.

"Urgh," I mumble into my elbow, further flattening my face in my arm until my nose mashes even more into my slightly sweaty skin.

The humidity in the room makes everything sticky.

I shift in my seat.

 _No,_ I breathe out silently. _  
_

To my growing horror, every bit of my clothes cling to my skin. In all the wrong places.

And when I finally crawl out of my elbow, I almost don't want to face my desk partner - _elbow_ _buddies -_ is how he describes us.

He hisses my name again in the drawn out way that has me wanting to plug my ears.

I hold in my breath as I turn to him.

Even though he only _just_ started school yesterday he already claimed me as his best friend. Only because the others don't want to be his friend.

At least he hasn't tried to hug me.

He better not, or else my parents would get a whiff of an Omega on my skin, and I'd be forced into another _'talk'_ again. And then they'd ask to meet _my_ Omega. As if anyone chooses their mate in 7th grade! The thought of my _elbow buddy_ being my . . . _my_ Omega.

 _Oh god, no, never!_

 _Thanks mom,_ I roll my lips together in an effort to not growl at my desk partner.

Mom had asked - _told me to -_ sign up to be part of my school's Welcome Committee, which is why I'm forced to sit right next to the source of my pain.

Getting 'involved' in school activities is what got me into this situation.

The _situation_ is my _elbow buddy._

I cough when air catches in my throat. In a prepared ritual, I curl slightly into myself while a gag rolls throughout my chest.

But unlike all the other times before, it's too late to cover my nose with my hand because the newest gulp of air had already forced his scent into my body.

There is something utterly wrong with his scent.

It's not mean of me to say that and it's not a lie, because while I'm coughing my lungs everyone else is throwing pitying glances at me with their hands over their noses. The substitute teacher scans the room before his eyes fall back to the computer screen on the desk in front of him.

We only have three out of seven classes together but I already had my fill of my _elbow buddy._

I pluck the front of my drenched t-shirt, breathing shallow intakes of air, feeling more lightheaded as the seconds pass.

Whatever happened to 'kids are our future,' - and all that other cheesy stuff adults would say? Kids at least deserve air-conditioned classrooms. We're stuffed in here for hours.

This is so unfair.

A fan to blow his scent away from me would be a blessing.

Out of the corner of my eye I see _him_ staring at me with raised brows.

My head lowers slightly, facing forward so that his scent isn't right in front of me.

Plus, the subtle hanging of my head isn't too obvious that I might fall asleep again. At least, I hope it isn't.

The hairs on my arms start to raise - he's still watching me.

I have to face him, I have to confront him because that's what Alphas do. Alphas solve problems, that's what my parents tell me.

He's an Omega, maybe . . . maybe he just wants attention from an Alpha? I mean, it makes sense - there's only two other Alphas in our grade. As an Alpha I like to know who the Omegas are because it's not _that_ uncommon to choose their mate in high school . . . and because usually their scent is sweeter than all the Betas. But _this_ omega -

What could he want?

 _'You okay?'_ he mouths silently. I can't help but notice he looks a little pale, in spite of his question startling me out of my bad mood. _Am I okay?_

Well, yeah, I can't complain outside of my parents fighting at 3am, being forced to sit next to a smelly Omega, and fighting against the urge to hide under my desk and sleep on the nice, flat floor. Other than that, everything's peachy.

I nod, feeling slightly sorry for thinking awful things about him, even if he does smell like . . . he's smells like something - _wrong._

"Gentlemen, eyes on your own test."

I groan aloud at that, slouching further in my chair. The sound must've been louder than I had thought judging from the cold glare from the substitute teacher.

At least he didn't call me out for sleeping earlier. Still, I lower my eyes at being caught by a teacher.

"Unless you want to slide off your chair and onto the floor, I suggest you sit up straight. You won't find the answers on the underside of your desk."

 _Urgh._

I sweep my eyes down while sliding myself back up the chair . . .

On my desk is a stark white paper.

Scribbles fill the margins from where I had previously mindlessly let my pencil drag.

I slowly creep my eyes to the first question on the page:

 _1\. How many solutions does this equation have: 0 = (61a - 5b) + -7a_

I quickly scan the following questions and flip the paper to look at the other side, my fingers sticking easily to the paper.

 _Double-sided test,_ I wince, gawking as the symbols on the paper starts to blur.

 _24!_ I almost groan aloud. The paper shakes in my hand the more I look at the list of numbers.

25 questions on the test and I've _only_ answered the first one.

A quick glance at the clocks hands tells me there are only ten minutes before the last bell rings.

I'm so screwed...

I wince again, imagining the disappointment on my parents faces and scents when they see my grade.

 _F_ for falling asleep in class.

 _F_ for failure.

I frown, tapping my pencil along my desk's tabletop. A tremor wrecks my spine, spreading down to my fingertips, and the paper in my hand shakes even more.

I can't fail. This is my best subject, this is my ticket to skipping 8th grade math, this is _not_ happening.

I can do this. Only ten minutes, only 24 questions, and then it's an easy A, and then I can -

"Are you all right?"

 _Honeyed concern,_ purely dripping in _worry_ fills my nose. The substitute teacher has crouched down beside my seat to speak low.

"Yeah."

He raises his brows.

"Yes, sir."

Though a Beta, his scent is much more calming and bearable after getting a mouthful of my Omega _elbow buddy's_ scent.

I grip my pencil, easily ridding thoughts of the Omega sitting beside me. I'm ready to solve the second problem of the test.

I can do this, I have to do this. I will finish the test -

The hairs on my arms prickle.

He's still watching me.

I remind myself to take short breaths because something is definitely wrong if his scent makes me want to vomit.

Something's wrong with him.

 **.:.**

"Mom, I'm home!" I holler, kicking off my shoes at the front door, while tossing my backpack on the cushioned bench mom likes to keep in the main hallway.

"In the kitchen!"

After latching the lock of the door, I walk toward the kitchen still holding onto my house key.

I pat my growling stomach along the way. As I turn into the doorway of the kitchen I ask, "Mom, when's dinner?"

She's leaned against the stove, a little hunched over as she stirs a large pot, "Hmm?" a light goes off in her eyes when I repeat my question, continuing my walk to her. "I don't want this to burn. I'm taking most of this down to the station, our dinner is what's left over."

Usually parties are at the diner because mom hates cooking, so I ask, "Is it someone's birthday?" I imagine a giant cake and stuffing my face with a huge piece. Hopefully chocolate flavored.

She laughs, putting down her spoon to stop stirring whatever is in the pot.

I lift my chin slightly, inhaling a long breath. Chicken noodle soup. I roll my lips together before asking slowly, "Is someone else . . . sick?"

Bringing homemade soup to dad's work is a first and mom has never cooked so much food at one time.

She pulls me into a hug, and the pressure on top of my head lets me know she's kissing the top of my head.

Then, the weight of something lays on my head - and I realize she's scenting me by rubbing her cheek on my hair.

I let her do whatever she likes and return her hug because this feels much better than falling asleep on a school desk. Even if she and dad kept me up nearly all night, I can't stop myself from falling into her familiar hold.

I rub my face into her shoulder, letting my own scent seep into her clothing.

She pulls back, her hands now on my shoulders. She smiles at me, "You're getting so tall now, I'm a little . . . sad. Now, I know you're too big for me to pick up."

"Mom," I try to slip away from her, scowling, "I'm thirteen."

She lets go of my shoulders to hold my hands, keeping me from trying to get away from her.

She looks straight into my eyes. "You'll always be my baby."

 _Urgh._

"Why do you have to say stuff like that, mom?" I throw her a look of disgust.

I'm not a baby.

She laughs, squeezing my hands, "You're adorable."

"No - I'm not!"

Puppies are adorable.

Omegas are adorable.

"I'm the opposite of adorable!"

One of her hands moves to grasp my wrist where the skin is marked with indents and colored a warm, reddish brown.

She traces the marks with her thumb.

"Mom?" I furrow my brows, shuffling closer to her, a far cry from my efforts to get out of her hands before.

She lets go of my hands, turning to face the stove, and picks up the spoon to stir the pot once more. "There's nothing to worry about, baby. I'm sure it's nothing . . ."

I roll my lips together, feeling a little confused. She continues stirring the pot. "Is something going on . . . with . . . you and dad?"

"Agh, damn!"

She shoots a look at me while fishing the spoon out of the soup. "Can't hide anything from you Guides," she mumbles beneath her breath.

Well, she's not wrong about that, but . . . "I heard you and dad last night, me being a Guide has nothing to do with sensing something's wrong with you guys."

At that, she huffs a laugh. "I'm sorry, baby. But that saying has some truth! I really can't hide anything from you," she says with a fond smile.

Clearing her throat, she speaks firmer now, saying, "Your daddy and I are going through a rough patch, I won't lie, and every bonded pair has their hardships . . . Anyway, while I'm gone, d'you have plans with friends tonight?"

Do I ever?

I think back to the few times I had friends come over - and it's only a few occasions. Who wants to be friends with a cop's kid?

"Uhhh . . . No, no plans. Just doing the usual tonight."

The scent of crystal clear _relief_ comes from her to me. She turns a dial of the stovetop and just like that, the redness of the burners fades to black.

"I can visit dad's work with you," I offer more quietly, carefully watching her.

"Baby," she starts to coo.

I groan aloud - what did I do now?

I'm almost out the kitchen doorway before she grabs me into a hug. Her scent clouding over my senses and my skin tingles where she touches.

"You're such a sweet Alpha Guide," she smiles fully with dimples now. I blush deeply, ducking my head. "You're going to make one lucky Omega really happy."

"Mom, please - stop."

"Alright, I'm stopping," she throws her arms up in the air in surrender, and I clutch onto the doorway, still unsure if I really should stay home while she's going to visit dad's work.

I hadn't seen him since yesterday evening.

"Oh, how did your math test go?" she has her back turned to me as she takes a giant plastic container from a shelf.

"I think I did good, there was only 25 questions."

She nods, standing straight now as she places the container onto an empty countertop. "I'm so proud of you, baby. Math wasn't my strong suit, Lord knows where you got that mind from. It's not from your daddy, either . . . "

"Maybe it skips a generation." I push myself off of the doorway and grab onto the large pot when it's in reach. I tip it over while she holds the plastic container.

Together, we work to get all of the chunks of chicken and shredded carrots out of the pot.

"Hey, mom?" I prompt, watching her spoon out the remains of the soup into the plastic container.

"Yeah, baby?"

"There's a new kid in school."

She lifts a brow in interest, eyes glowing brighter, "An Omega?"

I leave the empty pot on the counter, rolling my eyes. Knowing her, she's already planning my wedding.

I silently watch her snap a secure lid onto to the plastic container, but the scent of savory chicken broth and wheat noodles still coats the air in the room.

"Yeah," I tell her shortly. "The weird thing is that his scent is - off."

I shake my head, still confused at how everyone in the school stayed away from him. Myself included.

Her eyes narrow, and her hands go to her hips, "Carl Grimes, are you bullying someone because of their scent? An _Omega?"_

My jaw drops, and I hurry to speak, "No! Everyone can smell him, it's not just me thinking it. It's not like . . . sweat or dirty clothes. It's like there's something . . . wro - "

Her eyes start to tighten and the marks on one of my wrists start to burn.

" - wrong with him."

"And what did Mrs. White have to say about him?" her voice starts to echo in the kitchen as she speaker louder and louder with each new word, "Did she let y'all keep on bullying him? I'll be having a talking to with her tomorrow!"

We've had a substitute teacher for the past three weeks. Just as I'm about to speak, the marks on my wrist burn hotter, _"Ouch!"_

Immediately mom crowds around me, "Ooh - I'm sorry, baby," she massages my throbbing wrist. "It's just . . . Carl, you know how I feel about bullying."

"Yeah, don't do it, or else."

I shake my wrist at her as emphasis.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she continues to rub my wrist raw, her voice saddened. "You know, I'd never wish for you to be different, but I'd change this one thing if I could. When you were born, we never dreamed of having a Guide. We only expected an Alpha, it's almost a family legacy at this point."

"Seriously, it's not a big deal. I've had thirteen years to get used to you or dad getting mad at me."

She peers down at me, "How's your wrist now?"

I twist my wrist so the soft underside is in my view. The redness is still there, as always. The indented teeth marks are still there from when she first left her scent when I was a newborn.

The burning heat is gone, so that's good.

"Doesn't hurt," I inform her lowly.

She smiles, soft and familiar and that makes up for the pain.

 **.:.**

 _Slow down. Slow down, slow down, damn it!_

I turned a sharp corner, ducking under the reaching hands.

BANG!

BANG!

"Gotcha!" I shout in victory, watching the body falls flat on its back before fading into nothing.

I beam at the bold red words flashing on and off the screen: Level 50 Complete!

"Hey, kiddo," a hand slides onto my shoulder.

I yelp, letting go of the game controller. It thumps onto the sofa. "Dad! You scared me!"

I'm a bit annoyed at myself for not paying attention so badly that I didn't scent or hear him coming.

He runs a hand through his hair before collapsing onto the couch cushion beside me.

The warmth of his side pressed against mine is a welcome sensation.

His arm comes over the back of the couch while his hand pulls me further into him.

His chest rumbles with laughter, "Well, I'd say I'm sorry, but your reaction was priceless."

He pokes between my ribs in a quick, jabbing move, and I can't stop the tickling feeling. I burst burst into laughter, and his deeper tone joins mine.

He sighs, "It's good to be home."

 **.:.**

Disclaimer: I don't own TWD, no money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended by me writing this fan-fiction story. I do, however, own the opinion that Harry Styles is a fantastic singer.

 **I'll admit right now... I love feedback. Don't be shy! I gladly accept constructive criticism, but flaming or hateful comments - will be met a reply in-kind. Don't like the content or subject, don't read it. Simple really.**


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